Tears Of A Clown
by Spellotape83
Summary: Fred and George Weasley. Always ready for a giggle and never taking life too seriously. But what happens when Fred sees something awful and all of a sudden, laughing is the last thing he feels like doing?


**Tears Of A Clown**

I lie in my bed, staring blankly through the pitch-blackness at the ceiling, which, although I can't see it, I know is there. Though I can't see them, I know there are posters of the Chudley Canons and pictures of Muggle aeroplanes, which, by the way, we happen to think are one of the coolest inventions of all times. Much more practical than an enchanted Ford Anglia. I concentrate on staring at nothing. I concentrate on thinking about nothing. But, most of all, I concentrate on breathing regularly, slowly and heavily so he doesn't know I'm awake. It's the least I can do to try and spare him the humiliation of knowing I can hear his sobs. He'd be mortified.

So I lie there, perfectly still, listening to the muffled sound of my brother crying into his pillow. It's not a sound I'm familiar with any more. Fred and I don't cry. We don't get upset. We _can't_ get upset. For as long as I can remember, our role in the family, our forte, has been jollying everyone along when things are hard. Making people smile when all they want to do is cry. Cheering people up when they need it. And even when they don't. (As well as making people happy, we're also experts at pissing people off.) But _we_ don't get upset. Not visibly anyway. I mean, obviously, when our dad was attacked at the Ministry a couple of years ago, we were worried, frantic almost, fearing the worst along with everyone else. But we didn't let it show. We couldn't. If we weren't trying to make people laugh, Fred reckons it would alter the entire dynamics of the universe or something. It's just a given. Water is wet; fire is hot; Draco Malfoy is a git and a half; Hermione will always know more than Harry, Ron, Fred and I put together; Ginny will always fancy Harry; Percy will always be an insufferable prat; Mum will always insist on shrieking at us in an ultrasonic pitch that only dogs can hear; and Fred and I will always, always be trying to make you laugh. (Or vomit or faint, but that's another story.)

So Fred crying isn't something I hear often. Obviously he cried when we were younger, like the time he ate an entire tray of Mum's shortbread before she'd baked it the Muggle way and she went ballistic and snapped his favourite broomstick in half. Or the time Bill caught him raking through his stuff and threatened to curse him with overgrown nostril hair forever more. But, although _I_ can tell when he's upset – he goes all quiet and, besides, I can feel it, it's a twin thing – he does a bloody good job of hiding it from the rest of the world.

Lying here like this is killing me. I know why he's crying. And I don't know why I'm not. Ron's in St Mungo's hospital. They say he's going to be okay but he looked so pale, lying there. We just have to wait til the effects wear off, the Healers say.

He got caught by Death Eaters. Harry's on this quest to find and destroy the Horcruxes holding part of You-Know-Who's soul and of course, Ron, as his ever faithful side-kick, and Hermione, as a fully portable talking encyclopaedia, are right there with him. Ron got separated from them and found himself cornered by three Death Eaters. I don't know how long they'd had him for before Fred got there. Luckily, Harry had informed the Order of his plans or only Merlin knows what would have happened. But I ran into the room, closely followed by Tonks, Bill and Kingsley Shacklebolt to find Ron writhing on the stone floor in agony, Death Eaters yelling the Cruciatus curse and Fred just standing there, ghostly pale, staring at them all as if he was in a trance.

The sounds of Ron's screams aren't ones I'm going to be forgetting in a hurry. Men don't usually scream, do they? It's usually associated with scaredy-cat girls or over-excited groupies. These ones were blood curdling. If was as if you could hear every last one of his burning nerve endings in those screams. No wonder Fred was staggered. Kinsgley and Bill stunned the Death Eaters and Tonks quickly ran to Ron, but Fred just kept standing there. It was like he couldn't move at all. I had to lead him out of there, prompt him to put one foot in front of the other.

That was six hours ago, and he's barely spoken, not even to me. After we were told to leave St Mungo's, Mum insisted we come back to The Burrow for at least the night. I think she wanted us all by her side. Harry, Hermione and Ginny are all here as well. So we're back in our old room, and I'm quite glad. In our flat above the shop we've got separate rooms. And, to be honest, I don't want to leave Fred alone right now.

* * *

I lie in my bed, staring blankly through the pitch-blackness at the wall, which, although I can't see it, I know is there. Even if it wasn't dark, I don't think I could see it through my tears. I can't stop crying and I hate it. It's not something I'm used to, all the tears and snot and stinging eyes and red nose and breath catching in your throat. For someone so out of practice, crying is a truly terrible thing. I don't cry. I can't cry. I'm one of the Weasley twins, laugh-a-minute, always relied upon to make you giggle or groan in any situation. People count on George and I, you know. We're expected to

rally the troops, keep people going. Don't they say laughter is the best medicine? If that's true, George and I should be the top Healers in the world. If we cry, it's like we're letting people down. No one's said as much, obviously, but it's how I feel. George too.

George. I send up a silent prayer of thanks that he's asleep. I'd be mortified if he could hear me, sobbing like a girl into my pillow, letting everyone down. Again.

I think of Ron, lying in front of me, in so much pain. And how I let him down. The anguish was written all over his face so plainly that even someone as thick as Crabbe or Goyle could have seen it. His eyes, pleading with me to help him. His screams echoing off the wall, so full of torment and torture.

And I just stood there. Staring. I couldn't move. All I could do was stand there, gawking like a gormless idiot at my little brother being reduced to a quivering mass of screams and begs. I didn't help him. I couldn't. I just stood there for ten, maybe twenty seconds, until – praise Merlin – people with an ounce of courage arrived and saved the day. And to think I was a Gryffindor. Clearly not one iota of bravery in me. The Death Eaters couldn't even _see_ me and I didn't do anything to help. I was just frozen, like one of the stone statues in the Hogwart's grounds. Maybe a gargoyle. I'm a failure. A disgrace to Gryffindor house and a dishonour to the Weasley family.

Another sob catches in my throat as I think of what could have happened if George hadn't come in. Ron could have died and it would have all been my cowardly fault.

My face stings and my mouth feels like glue. I can't breathe from all the snot and my eyes feel like someone's tipped sand into them. Choking, I wipe my nose on my pyjama sleeve. (Even though I know that's disgusting). Then a rustling noise comes from George's bed. I take a sharp breath in. He can't know I'm in this state. I'm already an embarrassment to the family.

* * *

I push back the covers and stand up. All of a sudden, Fred's stopped crying. He obviously didn't want me to know, but lying there listening to him was awful. Fred and I have that twin thing where if you know the other one's upset, it feels like someone is squeezing your heart and crushing your windpipe. Almost as if we can feel each other's pain. It's a pain in the arse. When Fred got concussion after falling out of next-door's tree while stealing apples, I was dizzy for hours. But tonight, I want to help him. I know what he needs, even if he doesn't.

Slowly, as if approaching a timid rabbit, I cross the small room, stopping at his bed. There's no movement.

"Fred?" My voice is tentative as I put my hand on his shoulder.

He doesn't reply for a bit, then, "I thought you were asleep." His voice sounds thick, as if his mouth is full of glue.

I shake my head, even though I know it's pointless. The room's completely dark. Then I pull back his covers and slide into bed beside him.

"What are you doing?" he hisses incredulously. I suppose he's not used to men getting into bed with him at night, even if it is only me.

He's facing the other way. I nudge him over slightly, trying to make more room. It's a tight squeeze these days, the two of us in a single bed.

"George?" he whispers again, voice still shaky and distorted from all the tears.

I swallow, feeling tears pricking at my own eyes. Feeling a bit weird, I drape my arm over his waist and pull him towards me, holding him tightly.

His body stiffens, not used to this. It feels weird to me as well. I mean, obviously, I love Fred. I love all of my family, but Weasley love (with the exception of my mum) is not touchy-feely love. More wallop-you-on-the-shoulder-for-doing-well-at-Quidditch love. Or tease-you-mercilessly-for-becoming-a-prefect love. Very rarely will you find Weasley brothers hugging each other. And kisses? Not a chance. But, somehow, I just know Fred needs to be held. And I'm the only one here. I want to help so I'll be damned if I don't give it my best shot.

"Don't cry," I murmur, deciding that acknowledging the weirdness of the situation won't help. "Ron's going to be alright. You heard what they said."

All of a sudden, Fred's body relaxes heavily into mine and he begins sobbing again, louder and more frantically this time.

"Just staring," he sobs. "Didn't help him… Couldn't move… Coward… Could've died… So much pain… So sore… Screaming… Disgrace…"

Tears begin to stream out of my eyes as well now, and I blink them away angrily. Fred's blaming himself. I could've guessed as much but hearing him admit it is painful.

* * *

I feel wetness on my shoulder and I know he's crying too now. Uncomfortably, because the bed is so small, I roll over until I'm facing him. All I can see is his eyes, glittering with tears yet to be shed. Needing this more than anything right now, and ignoring how weird it all feels, I put my arms around him and pull him closer to me, resting my head on his shoulder and hanging on for dear life. He clings on just as tightly and we lie there, distraught. Sobbing. Holding each other desperately like we haven't done since we were four and convinced the bogeyman was rattling chains in our wardrobe. (It was actually Charlie; he's never let us live it down.) George, I would imagine, is eager to comfort me and I'm just looking for a sign that I'm not a complete abomination to the name of Weasley.

George pulls back first. "Fred." His voice is breaking with emotion. "Listen to me, you daft git. You can't blame yourself. It's not your fault. Anyone would have been shocked by what they saw. I was. I didn't do anything to help either, it was Bill and Kingsley that stunned them."

"At least you didn't stand and watch." My voice sounds bitter. I roll over again, so I'm facing the wall and not my twin. But his arm doesn't leave my waist, his hand resting on my stomach. "He was screaming, George. Horrible, horrible screams I'll never ever forget. And the looks he was giving me. Begging, pleading with me just to help him. To take away the pain. And I didn't. I couldn't. I just stood there. I let him down. He's in hospital and it's my fault."

George takes another breath, this time managing to steady his voice. "Nobody blames you. It's called shock, Fred. Like why some people laugh when they're told that someone's dead. Shock, disbelief, whatever. It's a normal reaction. Ron's going to be fine. And he certainly won't blame you."

I don't answer, mulling it over in my head. The sensible part of my brain (there is a small one) knows he's right. But I'm still so angry with myself for being such a coward.

My twin speaks again. "Stop beating yourself up. It won't help. Tomorrow morning, we have to go to breakfast and we have to keep everyone's spirits up like we always do. Nobody will expect anything different. And definitely, one million percent, no one will be blaming you, or angry with you, or ashamed of you. They're _worried_, Fred, not pissed off. The best thing you can do, if you want to help or feel like you've got to make some kind of amends – which you don't, by the way - is to get down there tomorrow and be your usual charming self."

I snigger. See. We can make anyone laugh in any situation. Even each other. Even now.

George is right. I know he is. If I go downstairs tomorrow all tearstained and self-pitying, it will only be one more thing for Mum and Dad to worry about. I know this is going to bother me for a long time but it'll just have to bother me in private.

"You can always talk to me about it." It's as if George read my mind.

Unsure of what to say, I bring my hand towards my stomach and grasp hold of his, squeezing it tightly.

And we lie there, two identical nineteen-year-old brothers, lying squashed in a small single bed, holding hands. It must look weird – it certainly feels weird – but while it hasn't chased my inner turmoil away completely, it has soothed it slightly. Enough for me to think that maybe, just maybe, George is right and I don't have to beat myself up about this forever. I meant what I said. I will never, ever, forget the look on Ron's face or the sheer anguish in his screams. But perhaps I'll learn not to think about them too often. That's what poor Ron will certainly have to do.

I hear George's breathing pattern change. The git has only gone and fallen asleep in my bed. I smile weakly through the darkness, patting his hand and gently extricating myself from his hold. I crawl into his bed, all of a sudden feeling absolutely knackered. This crying business is tiring. I know that neither of us will really mention this again. I'll maybe get a concerned look from George in the morning but he knows as well as I do that when we get yelled down for breakfast we'll be chipper as always. Joking, mucking about, making Harry laugh and Ginny furious.

After all, it's our job.

**The End**


End file.
